Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

The Curse of Clifton
OR,
THE WIDOWED BRIDE.

BY MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

AUTHOR OF “SELF-RAISED,” “ISHMAEL,” “FAIR PLAY,” “A NOBLE LORD,” “THE CHANGED BRIDES,” “A BEAUTIFUL FIEND,” “HOW HE WON HER,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE BRIDE’S FATE,” “THE LADY OF THE ISLE,” “CRUEL AS THE GRAVE,” “VIVIA,” “THE WIDOW’S SON,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE LOST HEIRESS,” “INDIA,” “THE GYPSY’S PROPHECY,” “THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “VICTOR’S TRIUMPH,” “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE FATAL SECRET,” “THE SPECTRE LOVER,” “MAIDEN WIDOW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “FATAL MARRIAGE,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” “TRIED FOR HER LIFE,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” ETC.

“The Curse of Clifton; or, The Widowed Bride” will be found, on perusal by all, to be equal, if not superior, to any of the previous works by the celebrated American authoress, Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth, who is now conceded by critics to be the most popular female writer living, and her works to be among the greatest novels in the English language, as well as the most splendid pictures of American life ever written. “The Curse of Clifton” shows all the grace, vigor, and absorbing interest to be found in “Ishmael” and “Self-Raised,” her last two works, and places Mrs. Southworth in the front rank of living novelists. The same indescribable charm pervades all her works, which can only emanate from a female mind, and the excellences of “The Curse of Clifton” are many and great. It is a model book—graphic, brilliant and original. The romance is glowing and bold, possessing an absorbing interest that can attach only to real existences and life-like portraitures. The characters are beautifully drawn, and the novel throughout is highly exciting and of unexceptionable moral tendency. It ought to be read by everybody in the cheap form in which it is now issued.

PHILADELPHIA:

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;

306 CHESTNUT STREET.

COPYRIGHT:—1875.

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S COMPLETE WORKS.

EACH WORK IS COMPLETE IN ONE LARGE DUODECIMO VOLUME.

SELF-RAISED; or, FROM THE DEPTHS. Sequel to Ishmael.

ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being Self-Made.)

THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; or, MARRIED IN HASTE.

THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, Fall of House of Flint.

THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER.

A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE.

VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. A Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.”

THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, Orville Deville.

FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, the MAN HATER.

HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “Fair Play.”

THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way.

THE BRIDE’S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”

CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery.

TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse.

THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, The Island Princess.

THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers.

A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.”

THE FAMILY DOOM; or, the SIN OF A COUNTESS.

THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “The Family Doom.”

THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening.

THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, the Bridal Day.

THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, Shannondale.

ALL WORTH ABBEY; or, Eudora.

FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE.

INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER.

VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER.

THE WIDOW’S SON; or, Left Alone.

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle.

BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN. Sequel to “The Widow’s Son.”

THE BRIDAL EVE; or, Rose Elmer.

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, Hickory Hall.

THE DESERTED WIFE.

HAUNTED HOMESTEAD.

THE LOST HEIRESS.

THE SPECTRE LOVER.

THE WIFE’S VICTORY.

THE FATAL SECRET.

THE CURSE OF CLIFTON.

THE TWO SISTERS.

THE ARTISTS LOVE.

LOVE’S LABOR WON.

MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW.

RETRIBUTION.

Above Books are Bound in Morocco Cloth. Price $1.50 Each.

☞ Mrs. Southworth’s works are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of any one, or more of them, will be sent to any one, postage prepaid, or free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa.

CONTENTS.

THE CURSE OF CLIFTON.

CHAPTER I.
THE MOUNTAIN HUT.

A lonesome lodge

That stands so lowe in lonely glen,

The little windowe, dim and darke,

Is hung with ivy, brier and yewe.

Percy’s Reliques.

Upon a glorious morning, in the mid-summer of 18—, two equestrian travellers spurred their horses up the ascent of the Eagle’s Flight, the loftiest and most perilous pass of the Alleghanies.

Though the sun was near the meridian, and all the sky above was “darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,” and perfectly clear, yet all the earth beneath was covered by a thick, low-lying fog.

On reaching the highest point of the pass, both travellers drew rein and paused, looking—North, South, East, West—over the ocean of vapor rolling from horizon to horizon below them! And while they so pause, let us catch that nearly vertical ray of the sun that falls upon them, lighting up the group like fire above the fog, and daguerreotype them as they stand.

Both are young men of about the same age, probably twenty-five; both are well mounted upon fine bay horses, and both wear the undress uniform of the ———— Regiment of Cavalry; and here all resemblance between them ceases.

He on the right hand, who holds in his horse’s head with so tight a rein, causing the gallant steed to arch his beautiful neck so gracefully, while he lets fly a falcon-glance around the shrouded horizon, is Archer Clifton, of Clifton, now holding the rank of Captain in the —— Regiment of Cavalry. His form is of middle size, strongly built, yet elegantly proportioned. His complexion is dark and bronzed as by exposure; his features are Roman; his hair and whiskers trimly cut, are of the darkest chestnut, with what painters call cool lights, which is to say, that there is no warmth of coloring even where the sun lights. Indeed, there is no warmth about the looks of the whole man. His eyes are singularly beautiful and brilliant, combining all those dark, shifting, scintillating, prismatic hues, that would drive an artist mad, for want of colors to portray, or an author to despair, for lack of words to describe. He wears the dark blue uniform of his regiment, and manages his noble charger with the ease and grace only to be found in the accomplished cavalry officer.

He upon the left hand, who, with languid air and loosened rein, inclines his body forward, permitting his graceful horse to droop his head and scent the earth, as in quest of herbage, is Francis Fairfax, of Green Plains, a Lieutenant in the company under the command of Captain Clifton. He is of about the same height of Clifton, but his figure is slender almost to fragility. His features are delicate and piquant. His complexion is fair and transparent. His hair is also very fair, and waves off from a forehead so snowy, round and smooth, as to seem child-like, especially with those clear blue eyes, that now brood roguishly under their golden lashes, as in profound quest of mischief, and now light up and sparkle with fun and frolic. He missmanages his spoiled pet of a steed with the charming insouciance, only to be seen in the amateur poet, painter, player, musician, etc., etc., etc. And yet there is sometimes an earnest, thoughtful aspect about the youth, that surprises one into the suspicion that all his levity is superficial, and hides his deeper and better nature, as stubble sometimes covers and conceals a mine of precious metal.

“Well!” at last spoke Mr. Fairfax, “it is now about twelve hours since we were emptied out of that atrocious old stage coach, which, for a week past, has been beating us about in its interior, from side to side, and from seat to ceiling, as if we were a lump of butter in an old woman’s churn, and whose kindest turn of all to us was, when it turned over and shook us out down the precipice, and into the trough of the Wolf’s Lick, as if we had been apples fed to the pigs. Oh! by the lost baronetcy of the house of Fairfax, my self-esteem will never recover the effects of it! Perdition seize the picturesque at this price! And ever since long before daybreak this morning, have we been wandering about over those mountain tops, with the earth below us hidden in mist and only the highest peaks looming through the sea of vapor like islands in the ocean! And we plunging wildly about in the fog, like death on the pale horse riding the waves! And to the momentarily recurring risk of riding over some hidden precipice of a thousand feet perpendicular. If this be your glorious mountain scenery, to the demon with it! For I had as lief be on the open sea with the ‘Ancient Mariner!’”

To this half petulant, half laughing philippic Captain Clifton, while his glance still roved over the shrouded hemisphere, replied, with an indulgent smile—

“You cannot see the face of the country for the morning veil she chooses to wear. But wait till high noon, when the sun, her royal lover, in the meridian of his glory, shall raise that gauzy covering, and she, like a right royal bride, shall smile and blush in light and glory.”

“By my soul, I could fancy the lady earth wore this veil to conceal fast gathering tears, rather than smiles or blushes! Anglicé, I think we shall have rain soon—though blistered be my tongue for saying it!—not about the rain but about the veil! For, look you! Fret as I may at this journey through the mist—yet this fine scenery, under a cloud as it literally is, gives me a feeling of breadth, grandeur! I expand, spread out over the vast area of its shrouded solitudes. Oh! it is only on the boundless sea or on the mountain top, with a hemisphere below me, that I feel as if I had room enough to live in! And you give me a feeling of suffocation by drawing in this awful shrouded world to the simile of a lady’s veiled face! But it is not to be wondered at! No, by the shade of Marc Antony, and all other great men, who held the whole world light in the balance with a woman’s evanescent smile or tear! everything is apropos du femmes with you now. Could the music of the spheres suddenly burst upon your astonished ears, as soon as you had recovered your senses, your highest note of admiration would be to compare that universal diapason of divine harmony to Lady Carolyn’s silver laugh!”

“I do not recollect ever to have heard ‘Lady’ Carolyn laugh.”

“Ten thousand pardons! A Clifton of Clifton never laughs. But tell me, Captain, whereabouts in the world—I mean in the clouds, are we? And when shall we see this pure pearl of beauty and the rich casket that enshrines her, this stately lily of the mountains and the parterre where she blooms;—when shall we behold Paradise and the Peri—Clifton and Lady Carolyn?”

Without replying to this mock-poetic strain, Captain Clifton remained with his eyes still wandering from East to West, and back again over the rolling vapor. And Fairfax continued—

“I suspect now, by your abstracted air and wandering eye, that you have lost your way in the clouds—not the first time such a thing has happened to a lover, nor would it be strange in a place like this, where the only land-marks are mountain tops sticking out of the fog with a day’s journey between each!”

At this instant a distant group of peaks broke suddenly through the mist like new isles thrown up by the sea, and glittered whitely in the sunlight against the deep blue horizon.

“See!” exclaimed Clifton, roused from his apathy by the sudden apparition. “Look, Fairfax! I will show you White Cliffs! Look straight before you to the Western horizon—a little North of West. You see a crescent of seven peaks rising through the mist against the sky. That is White Cliffs.”

“Looking white enough at this distance—quite like snow-capped mountains, in fact.”

“Yes. They are of white quartz, and their peaks rising from the girdle of dark evergreens around their base and sides, have quite a cooling effect in hot weather.”

“Ah! just so. Now how far off are those same blessed refrigerators?”

“About twenty-five miles in a bee-line. But the mountain road is very circuitous, and makes the distance nearly forty. However, if we ride well, we shall be able to reach Clifton in time to surprise Mrs. Clifton at tea.”

“Heaven be praised for that possibility!” ejaculated Fairfax, as they prepared to descend the mountain side.

As they rode down, Captain Clifton, warming slightly from his cool reserve, said—

“I think, Fairfax, that you, poet and artist as you claim to be, will rather like Clifton. Tourists, who have visited our part of the country, think the scenery there very fine. It impresses me merely as being unique. There is something formal—but, to myself, not therefore unpleasing in that crescent of seven peaks—the tallest being in the centre and gradually declining thence to the lowest, which may be called the horns of the crescent, and point Southward. Those peaks rise from a forest of—first elms and oaks around their base; then pines farther up their sides; and last of cedars, above which rise the pinnacle of white quartz. This crescent of mountains surrounds and shelters from the North winds the family mansion, which is situated in the woods at its foot. North of the peaks, the country is wild and rugged, but partly covered with thick forest, and affording the best hunting grounds in the world. There you may course the hare; track the deer; or if your tastes aspire to a fiercer conflict, hunt the wolf, the wild cat, or the bear—!”

“—Or the rattle-snake, copper-head, or moccasin! Thank you, I have no inclination for crusade against those mountaineers,” laughed Fairfax.

“Perhaps you like angling? There is a trout stream at the foot of the wooded lawn, in front of the house. I must tell you about that, for it is the head waters of a fine river.

“From the Western cliff there springs a torrent that with many a leap, and fall, and rebound, tumbles tumultuously down the side of the mountain, and falling into a channel at the foot of the lawn flows calmly on, until it meets a second fall, from whence it goes hurrying on, through forests, fields and rocks, taking tribute from many a mountain torrent, and many a meadow-stream, and widening as it goes, until it becomes a mighty river, rushing on, to pour its floods into the majestic James. After which, they both go on, breaking through range after range of mountains, and so conquer their passage to the sea—even as in the feudal days of the olden country, some mountain chieftain, gathering his vassals together, came rushing down from his highland home, and laying all the country under tribute in his course, hurried on to throw all his treasures at the feet of his sovereign, and go with him to the wars.”

“Clifton!” said Fairfax, more seriously than he had yet spoken, “all your illustrations—all your metaphors—all your thoughts, fancies and imaginings are—not ‘of the earth, earthy,’ but worse—far worse—of the world, worldly! Of the world, its castes, customs and conventions—its pomps, vanities and falsities! You speak of the grandest, the most imposing—oh! let me call it at once, the most magnificent area of mountain scenery in the hemisphere, with all the earth, below and around, covered with a sea of vapor that rises and falls, rolling from horizon to horizon, like the waves of the ocean, and you compare it to a veiled royal bride! You describe a mighty mountain-river, rending its passage through the everlasting rocks, overleaping, uprooting, bearing down and bearing on all obstacles to its resistless rush towards the sea, and you liken it to a chieftain going to pay tribute to a King! Ah, Clifton of Clifton, the beauty, the glory, and the majesty of the earth pleases you, but the ‘pomp, pride, and circumstance’ of the world inspires you! But when was it otherwise with a Clifton, of Clifton? ‘The spirit of intense worldliness has ever been their bane and curse—their sin and its punishment!’” he concluded, relapsing into his mock-tragic air.

“Ah! so you are familiar with the popular legend that you have just quoted,” said Captain Clifton. “But,” he added, with a sarcastic smile, “were Georgia here, I think she could refute the charge, and prove one Clifton, at least, has been guided by any spirit rather than that of ‘intense worldliness.’”

“Georgia?”

“I beg her pardon! Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton.”

“Oh! your aunt! but by my soul, Captain, that was a very irreverent way of introducing the old lady! Do young men in your patriarchal part of the country call old gentlewomen by their Christian names?”

“Old gentlewomen!” repeated Clifton slowly, with a musing smile, adding—“Georgia is about seventeen years of age, and the most beautiful woman in the world!”

“Whe-e-e-ew! I’m amazed! I’m confounded! I’m stunned! Then—the present Mrs. Clifton is the second wife?”

“No, sir—Georgia is my uncle’s fourth wife.”

“Overwhelmed!—annihilated!” exclaimed the young man. “The—the—old Blue-beard! the old Henry VIII.! Four wives! Are they all living?—if not, where does he bury his dead?”

“Fairfax!” exclaimed Captain Clifton, in a tone, and with a look, that speedily recalled the young man to himself—then he added, rather haughtily—“My Uncle Clifton is a simple, gentle-hearted old man, excessively fond of women, but mark you, sir!—it is the affection of the patriarch, not of the pacha.”

“Hang me if ever I saw any difference between Solomon the king, and Solimaun the caliph; Abraham the patriarch, and Aroun the pacha, in that respect,” laughed the young man, until, stealing a furtive glance at the cold and haughty face of Clifton, he held out his hand, and suddenly exclaimed—“Pardon me, Clifton! or call me out! I—can’t help a jest, to save my soul! but I’ll fight or apologize, or render any other sort of satisfaction afterwards!”

Captain Clifton remembered that Francis Fairfax was his guest, going to spend a long mid-summer furlough at his mother’s house, and so he cleared his brow and answered—

“Nonsense!”

“Now tell me about Henry VIII.’s fourth Queen—how long has she been married—I mean the present Mrs. Clifton?”

“About two years. My uncle wedded her when she was fifteen—she is now seventeen—and, as I said, the most beautiful creature that you, or I, or any one else, ever did, or ever shall see, anywhere.”

“Allons—stop there! False knight and recreant! whose colors do you wear while you uphold the peerless beauty of Georgia? What would Miss Clifton of Clifton say to your admiration?”

“Ridiculous, sir! Miss Clifton is herself very beautiful but not the most beautiful. Miss Clifton has other and rarer distinctions, I am proud to say?”

“Oh, I understand—her family name!—nevertheless, be hanged if I don’t believe you have been in love with Georgia!”

“Impossible, sir! The perfect beauty of the young girl struck me forcibly, as it strikes all others—nay, more—impressed my imagination deeply perhaps. I confess to a penchant for female beauty—and—observe—it is the artist’s taste, sir, not the sultan’s. But in love with Georgia! Impossible, sir! She was a girl of humble parentage!”

“Ah! then you think it quite ‘impossible’ that a gentleman born, should be in love with a girl of ‘humble parentage?’”

“Preposterous, sir!—utterly preposterous! Pray, let us hear no more about it!”

“Yet your uncle—”

“My uncle married such an one, you would say. Old gentlemen, living on their own estates, will do such things. And the world charitably ascribes it to dotage, smiles and forgives them. You will oblige me by changing the subject, Frank.”

Fairfax fell into reverie, and Clifton dropped into thought, and they rode on for some time in silence, and in—joy—until—

“Floods and furies! Fire and flames!! Lightning and tempests, and sudden death!!!” exclaimed Fairfax, rearing and backing his horse with a terrible jerk, and throwing himself from the saddle, bathed in perspiration, and shaking with terror. “Look! Look there! There at your feet! Back! Back your horse, unless you wish to ride straight to the kingdom of Heaven, or—to the other place! Oh, blessed Lord! I shall never survive the shock!”

Captain Clifton backed his horse, dismounted, and following the index of Fairfax, approached the brink of the awful abyss, and looked down a perpendicular precipice of more than a thousand feet, with the remaining distance lost in shadows and dim vapors, while faintly to the ear came a low and hollow murmur, as of the roaring of many waters at a vast depth!

“This is the head of the Devil’s Staircase! We have lost our way!” said Captain Clifton.

“Devil’s Staircase! I should think it was! Ugh! Oooo-oo-ooh! I shall never survive it! Where does it lead to? Tell me that! To the infernal regions, I suppose, of course. Ur-r-r-r-r!” exclaimed Fairfax, with his teeth chattering.

“We have indeed made a very narrow escape,” said Captain Clifton, gazing thoughtfully down the horrible pit.

“Narrow escape! Ur-r-r-r-r!” exclaimed Frank, shaking, shuddering, and streaming with cold perspiration. “I tell you, when I was providentially led to look down, and saw the fog roll away from beneath my horse’s feet, and reveal that ghastly—Ur-r-r-r-r! Ur-r-r-r-r! I believe I shall chatter my teeth to powder!”

“Come, come, Fairfax! this is really unmanly. Thank an ever-watchful Providence, that has preserved you from a sudden and horrible death, and calm yourself. Be a man!”

“Be a man! You might as well say to my shuddering horse, there—be a horse! This is unhorsely! Ur-r-r-r-r. I tell you it has given me the tertian ague!”

“Why, Frank! Really!”

“Look at my horse—look even at that dumb beast! Yes, look at that gallant steed, who would charge upon a phalanx of fixed bayonets, and impale himself upon their points, if spurred to it—look at him! Positively frozen with terror!”

“Fairfax, you astonish me—certainly you are not really so much overcome.”

“Overcome! My nerves are shattered to atoms, I tell you! Ur-r-r-r-r! It has given me the tertian ague, and the St. Vitus’ dance! both together! Ur-r-r-r-r!”

“Now who would have supposed you to be a—of such a nervous temperament! Come, let me assist you to mount, and then away.”

“What! And at the end of the next hundred yards, ride headlong over a precipice of fifteen hundred feet, and before night find sepulchre in the maws of fifty turkey-buzzards! I tell you there is neither a glorious death, an honorable burial nor an immortal fame to be found in such a fate! Heavens and earth, no! For instance—‘Whatever became of that poor devil, Fairfax?’ asks one. ‘Oh, one day, crossing the mountains in a fog, with his head in a mist, he had the awkwardness to pitch himself headforemost down the Devil’s Ladder, in the Alleghanies,’ answers t’other. ‘Poor creature! He was always a miserable—but where was he buried?’ ‘He wa’n’t buried—the crows eat him up,’ etc., etc., etc.! Oh! I know what my posthumous fame would be in such a case. Quite different from that of the future Major-General Francis Fairfax, who, fifty years hence, at a good old age, shall die in his downy bed, with the archbishop praying by him, and be buried with the highest honors of war, and have a national monument raised to his fame, emblazoning his immortal services to his grateful country, in receiving her honors and emoluments for more that half a century! Can’t give up that glorious future for the sake of dashing myself to pieces this afternoon, Clifton. No!” said the young man, folding his arms, and striking an attitude a-la-Napoleon, “I have a destiny to fulfill, and shall not stir from this spot until the mist rises or falls.”

“Mr. Fairfax! It is now drawing late in the afternoon. We shall have a storm before night; and a storm on the mountains, let me tell you, is a much more delightful thing to read about in Childe Harold, while stretched at your ease upon the settee in your shady piazza, than to take in propria personæ on the Alleghanies,” said Captain Clifton, quietly.

“Only warrant me from bringing up suddenly to the jumping-off place before I know it—and I’ll make an attempt! Yea! let him only insure my body unharmed by fire or water, and I’ll valiantly follow my leader through flood and flame!” replied Frank, recovering himself with a few more shudders, and preparing to mount.

“We have left the right road about two miles behind,” said Captain Clifton, turning his horse’s head and leading the way.

The fog below was condensing very fast. From the North-Western horizon black clouds were rising behind masses of foaming white vapor. The air was still and oppressive, and from all around came a faint, low moaning sound, as if nature cowered and trembled before the coming of the terrible “storm king.” The fog was now rolling down and gathering into clouds below them—revealing the majestic features of the landscape, mountains, vales and forests, rocks, glens and waterfalls, in wild and magnificent confusion—all wearing now a savage and gloomy aspect under the shadow of the coming storm. Captain Clifton’s eye had been constantly on the alert in hope of discovering some mountain cabin, which might shelter them from the fury of the tempest, but as yet his search was unsuccessful—no human dwelling even of the humblest description was to be seen. At length the attention of the travellers was attracted by the faint tingling of a bell—then by the bleating of sheep—and then from the deep clouded glen at their right, sprung up into their path a bell-wether followed by two—five—ten—a whole flock of sheep; and driven by a girl on a pony; a little coarse, sun-burned girl, in a boy’s coarse straw hat and a homespun gown, riding on a little rough-coated, wiry, mountain pony.

“A shepherdess, by all that is romantic,” exclaimed Fairfax, vaulting aside to let the sheep pass. Then springing to the side of the rough-coated pony, he doffed his hat to the rider and said—

“My good girl—for the love of Providence, will you tell us where we can find shelter from the storm?”

The child raised her fine eyes to the stranger’s face with the look of a startled fawn—and dropped them again instantly. Fairfax repeated his question. The child stole another furtive glance at the fine gentleman in the very fine uniform, and then at her own coarse raiment, and blushed deeply. But before Fairfax could reiterate his request, she said, quietly—

“Grandfather’s cabin is not far off, if you and the other gentleman will come with me.”

“With great pleasure—and ten thousand thanks, my dear little girl. Be so good as to lead the way.”

The flock of sheep had gone on before. The girl put her pony in motion, and the gentlemen followed—Mr. Fairfax addressing all his conversation to his little companion; and Captain Clifton riding on in silence and abstraction.

The sky was darkening very fast, and great single drops of rain occasionally falling. They quickened their pace, and after riding briskly several hundred yards, came to the head of a glen, deep down in which was seen a small, lone cabin. At this instant the sheet lightning glared from horizon to horizon, followed by a report as of exploded and falling rocks, and then the rain came down in a deluge. The darkness was so dense now as to hide their way. The girl jumped from her pony, and giving him a little slap that sent him travelling down the path, went up to the head of Clifton’s horse and said, shyly—

“You can’t see the way, sir, and you don’t know the road—let me lead your horse.”

“By no means, my good girl,” replied Clifton, speaking in a tone of haughty astonishment.

Without reply the child turned from him and went towards Fairfax. And at the same instant a thunderbolt was hurled from Heaven with a terrific crash, riving the ground on which she had just stood. When the panic was over, the first thought of Captain Clifton was for the safety of that presumptuous child. A glare of lightning revealed her lying on the rock. He hastened to her side.

“My dear child, are you hurt,” he asked, dismounting and stooping to lift her.

“Oh! sir, I am so glad to hear you speak! I thought you were struck.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh no, sir, I was only thrown down,” replied the child, lightly springing to her feet.

“Oh, yes! Exchange your mutual condolences and congratulations. But who the mischief cares whether I am hurt or not?” exclaimed Fairfax, stumbling along towards them—for he also had dismounted.

“You were entirely out of danger,” replied Clifton.

“Out of danger! Who the deuce is out of danger within a hundred miles of these infernal mountains?”

The rain was still pouring down in floods, and in the interval of the thunder, the roar of the swollen torrents was deafening. The question now was, whether to remain standing there exposed to all the fury of the storm, or to attempt the now dangerous descent into the glen.

“I could lead your horses down in safety, if you would let me, for I know every inch of the road so well,” said the girl.

Another blinding glare of lightning, another terrific peal of thunder, and another deluge of rain, put a stop to all reply. At last the child repeated her offer, saying that she could lead the horses down very well, “one at a time.” But, of course, that was not for a moment to be thought of by the young men. And her plan was rejected at once.

“Well, then, the only way will be to go down on foot, and leave your horses here to follow. For you will need your hands as well as your feet in groping down the slippery rock through the darkness,” said the girl.

After a little more consultation, her last proposition was adopted, and they began the descent on foot.

After some twenty minutes’ toil and struggle through darkness and deluge, thunder and lightning, they reached the lowly door of the cabin, pushed it hastily open, and hurried in.

It was very dark, and nothing was to be seen but the red glow of a few smouldering embers on the hearth. Towards these the girl went.

“And what do you think has become of your flock of sheep, my good girl?” inquired Frank, kindly, remembering her interests while he stood there wringing the water out of his coat skirts.

“Oh, the bell-wether has led them all into the pen long ago, sir. They are always safe when they are once in the glen,” replied the child, as she lighted a candle.

The sudden glare of the light showed a rude apartment, with an earth floor, log walls, and a fire-place of unhewn stone. On the right of the fire-place stood a poor bedstead, upon which lay a venerable, white-haired old man, covered with a faded counterpane, and near the bed sat an old, chip-bottomed arm-chair. On the left of the fire-place were two rough plank shelves, the lower shelf adorned with a few pewter plates and mugs; the upper one filled with——books!—piles of old dingy, musty books; and near these shelves stood a spinning-wheel, with a broach of yarn on the spindle, and a basket of broaches under it. At the opposite end of the room, one corner was occupied by a little old oak table, and the other by a ladder leading up through a trap-door into the loft overhead. A few rude stools were ranged along the walls, junks of smoked venison, ropes of onions, bunches of dried herbs, hanks of yarn, and the old man’s old hat and coat garnished the walls. All this was seen at a glance.

“Is your grandfather sick?” inquired Frank.

The girl turned her eyes wistfully towards the venerable sleeper, and did not reply.

“Is your grandfather sick?” repeated Fairfax.

The child raised her eyes sorrowfully to the face of the young man, and remained silent.

“Is he so very sick?” earnestly reiterated Frank.

“He is not sick, sir,” answered the girl, in a low, sad voice.

“What is the matter with him, then?” thoughtlessly persisted Frank.

Without reply, the girl dropped her eyes, and blushing deeply, turned away. Setting the candle down upon the table, she took a pail of water and went up the ladder, and into the loft. After an absence of a few minutes, she returned, and said—

“If you will go up stairs now, you will find two suits of grandfather’s and Carl’s Sunday clothes. They are not fine, but they are clean and dry.”

Our wet and jaded travellers thanked their young hostess, and prepared to accept her offer.

“And if,” she added, “you would like to rest after so much fatigue, there is a bed.”

They reached the loft, and found it a small, low place, with a little window, and a little, clean bed. On the bed lay the two suits of homespun, and two coarse towels. And on a stool near, sat a pail of water and a tin basin.

“I do believe that little girl has given us her own sanctuary. What a dear little thing she is!—so full of courage, and shyness, too! If she were two or three years older, and a great deal prettier, I could fancy myself writing poetry about her,” said Frank.

Clifton made no comment—he was engaged in divesting himself of his wet garments, and thinking about—Miss Clifton.

When they had refreshed themselves by washing and changing their dress, Frank threw himself upon the bed, stretched out his limbs luxuriously, and declared that the rustic’s clothes were very loose and comfortable, and his own position truly delightful. Captain Clifton walked to the window, and looked out at the storm, which was now abating.

Frank was already sound asleep.

And while Clifton stood at the window, drawing comparisons between the meanness of the hut in which he found himself, and the magnificence of the mountain scenery around it, he heard—in that small, shell-like cabin—he could not help hearing—what follows. First a heave and plunge, as if the old man below stairs had started violently from his bed and fallen again, and then a fearful, shuddering voice exclaimed, “Kate! Kate! they’re coming again! They’re after me, Kate! They’re on me! They’re on me! Save me, Kate! Save me, Kate! Save—”

“Grandfather—dear grandfather,” said the soothing voice of the girl, “there is no one here but me—there, there, be quiet—be still; nothing shall hurt you here—nothing can you know.”

“Look! Look, Kate! Look! They’re not men now but devils!” A violent plunge, struggles, exclamations of terror and despair which the low, soothing tones and gestures of the poor girl vainly assayed to tranquillize for some time, and then—silence for a few minutes—which was again interrupted by—“Snakes! snakes, Kate! Snakes! Green snakes! See! see how they dart! They fly! They’re on me! They’re on me! Help! Help!” And the sound of the maniac laying about him furiously. Captain Clifton started up with the intention of going to the poor girl’s assistance—but by the time he reached the head of the ladder, the voice of the child had again calmed the infuriated man.

All was quiet for a quarter of an hour, and then another violent start and throw that seemed to shake the little hut, and a horrible shriek of—“A dragon! A dragon. Kate! A green dragon belching flame!” Then a succession of violent shrieks and struggles, which aroused Frank, who springing up in bed, exclaimed—

“What the deuce is the matter? Has the Major got another fit of mania-a-potu on him?” Then, as all again was quiet, he rubbed his eyes and said, laughing, “I do believe I have been talking in my sleep! I dreamed we were in our mess, and the Major was drunk again.”

“A part of your dream was real. The old man below stairs has a fit of mania-a-potu upon him.”

“What! and you staying here! I must go down and help the girl.”

“You had better not as yet. She seems to have the power of soothing him. Your presence might, by exasperating him, do more harm than good.”

At this moment another outbreak of fury from the madman caused Frank to spring to his feet, and, exclaiming—

“I can’t let that maniac tear my dear little hostess to pieces—” rush to the head of the ladder.

“I tell you you had best not intrude—his mania seems perfectly harmless to the child.”

But Frank was at the foot of the ladder, where, however, an impediment met him. The girl, who had just succeeded in again soothing the madman, came and stood before him, saying, “Pray do not come in, sir, just yet.”

“But, my good girl, I must come in and remain to protect you,” gently trying to pass her. She stood her ground firmly; her lips said—

“I am not in any danger. I beg you, sir, do not come in yet;” but her steady and rather threatening glance said—“Do not dare to look upon the old man in his degradation!”

Frank turned back, and went and perched himself at the top of the ladder to watch over the safety of the girl, and be ready in case of exigency.

He saw the old man lying, clutching the cover around him, while his terror-dilated eyes glared out like a wild beast’s from its lair—all ready for another start and spring! He saw the girl mix a mug of strong vinegar and water, and take it to him, and the old man grasp and quaff it with fiery thirst; three times she filled the mug, and three times he gulped its contents with voracity. Then she laid his aged head tenderly down, and went and saturated a cloth with vinegar, and placed it about his burning forehead and temples. Next she took a rustic fan of turkey feathers and stood by him and fanned him until he fell into a sleep, that every moment became deeper and deeper. Finally she gently laid down the fan, sunk upon her knees by the bedside, and bowed her head upon her clasped hands in silent prayer. At last she arose, pressed a light kiss upon the furrowed brow of the sleeper, and silently went about her household work.

From a shed at the back of the house she brought wood and water, made up the fire, filled and hung on the teakettle, set an oven and oven-lid to heat, and again disappeared through the back door into the shed. In about fifteen minutes she returned with a tray of dough and a pan of venison steaks. She made her dough into a loaf and put it in the oven to bake, and prepared her venison steaks to lay upon the coals. She set her table with milk and cream, and butter, brought in, doubtless from a rude, but cool spring-house, near at hand.

When all was done, she sat down to knit, seeming to wait the coming of another—for she often paused and listened with her head turned towards the door, and at length got up and drew from under the bed a trunk, whence she took an old, well-patched but clean suit of homespun clothes, with a shirt and a pair of socks, and hung them over a chair.

Soon after a step was heard without—the door was thrown open, and a thin, dark young man, dressed as a farm laborer, entered. Throwing his coarse hat to the other end of the room, he approached the fire, when seeing the situation of the old man he stopped short, and placing his arms akimbo, gazed on him, exclaiming—

“Drunk again, by ——!” and then turned, with an interrogative look, towards the girl.

A short wave of the hand—a quick, distressful nod, and the choking down of a sob, told him that it was so.

The young man let down his arms, and with a frown of mingled sorrow and anger approached and gazed upon the sleeper.

“Have you had much trouble with him, dear Kate?”

The same choking sob and quick nod answered him.

“Where DID he get the liquor? What has he laid his hands on and sold now—any of my books?”

“No! no!—it was my bonnet—but never mind, I can wear your old hat, you know!—it doesn’t matter for me!”

“Well, now, by all that’s—”

“Hush, hush, Carl! Don’t swear—he is our grandfather, you know; and besides,” she added, suddenly dropping her voice, “there are strangers up stairs.”

“Strangers! What strangers?”

“Two gentlemen who came in here out of the storm.”

“Umph!” said the young man, dropping himself into the arm-chair and falling into deep thought, from which he was aroused by the voice of Kate, saying—

“Carl, don’t sit down in your wet clothes; take those on the chair, and go in the shed and put them on. And make haste, please, Carl, because supper is nearly ready, and the gentlemen up stairs must be hungry.”

The young man arose, with a heavy sigh, saying—

“I’ll only change my jacket, that I can do here. Oh! Kate!” he continued, as he divested himself of his wet jacket, and drew on the other—“Oh! Kate! what between one thing and another this is no home for you! Indeed, indeed, every morning I go away from you with a heavy heart, and all day long I can hardly work for the dread that’s on my mind about you. If I could only find a place for you to wait on some lady, or to nurse a baby—but, Lord! what with the niggers there is never a place to be got here for a poor white girl.”

“Oh, Carl, if you could get me the best place in the world—even a place to sew—I wouldn’t leave him. Why, Carl, it would break his heart. He would grieve himself to death!”

“And better for him that he should be dead! And better for you and all concerned!”

“Oh, don’t say so, Carl! Don’t say so! Come and look at him, and let the sight soften your heart to him,” said the girl, taking the youth’s hand, and drawing him to the bedside. “Look, now, at that poor old wrinkled face—it has not got very long to live, anyhow—and see the two or three thin, white hairs on his temples—and see the poor, poor withered hands—so helpless! Oh! I think it is all so pitiful. And now see, he is asleep, but how much trouble there is on his poor old face—no, no! don’t say hard things of him, it cuts me to the heart! And, Carl, no matter how bad his fit may be, he never offers to hurt me or anything else. Only terror and horror is all that is on him! He is a gentle, harmless, poor old man. And I always pity him like I pity any one very ill.”

“Kate! I dare say you think this is all tender-heartedness, and you give yourself a great deal of credit for it! But I tell you it’s nothing but weakness. And it may be the ruin of you, too, before long. And now I tell you, I’m going to get a place for you, if I can. Yes, and make you go to it, too. I can do without you—that is, I must do without you! I can get the breakfast before I go away in the morning. And I can leave something for the old man’s dinner, and come home time enough in the evening to get his supper! And to-morrow I am going down to the turnpike gate to thrash Scroggings, and bring your bonnet home. And I’ll tell him if ever he lets the old man have any more liquor, I’ll kick him round his groggery till he hasn’t got a whole bone left in his body. Yes, and I’ll do it, too!”

Kate was placing the supper on the table, but she turned, with the same expression of countenance with which she had stopped Fairfax at the foot of the stairs, and said—

“I should be very sorry for any violence from you, Carl. But of one thing be sure—do what you may, I will never, never leave our grandfather!”

“There! now, whenever you get that hateful Maria Theresa look, I hate you, Katterin! I hate to see strength in women! It don’t belong to them, nor grace them, anyhow!”

“Strength of affection does, Carl. But now please call the gentlemen down to supper,” said Kate.

Carl rapped at the foot of the ladder, and summoned the travellers accordingly.

Now, though Fairfax had honorably withdrawn from the trap-door, the moment he found that his services would not be required, and that the conversation between Kate and Carl was growing confidential, yet every word of that conversation had been distinctly heard by both young men, and had produced an effect upon both. Frank with difficulty withheld himself from exclaiming aloud, as pity, disgust, anger or approbation moved him in turn. Captain Clifton, far less impressible, and more reserved than his companion, had remained perfectly quiet and silent, though his thoughts were more practically busy with the case than those of his companion. They went down, and were received at the foot of the ladder by Carl, who, with a sort of rough politeness, placed stools at the table, and invited them to be seated. They placed themselves at the board, at the head of which Kate already presided, with folded hands and downcast eyes. Then to their utter astonishment, the rude, irreverent young man, Carl, stood up and asked a blessing, saying, afterwards, that he was no parson, nor no Methodist, but Kate would have it so, and he thought it was best upon the whole, not to oppose females in such notions, And then he began to wait upon his guests.

Their supper consisted of good coffee, with cream and maple sugar; good bread, with fresh butter and cheese; venison steak and broiled chickens; and lastly, of a dish of baked pears, cold, and a pitcher of milk. Frank was surprised to find such excellence of fare amid the ragged poverty of the mountain cabin; but, on afterwards expressing this surprise to Captain Clifton, he was told by the latter, that such contrasts were by no means rare. Mr. Fairfax applied himself with zeal to the good things before him, until the sharpness of his appetite was sated, and then lingered long over the meal, conversing with his host upon the state of the country in his region, the climate and soil, productions, market, etc., and receiving from the young mountaineer the information that there was no great amount of produce about there, except in the glens, grazing for the cattle, and that the roads were so bad, and the towns and villages so distant, that nothing was raised for market, except such kind of produce as could walk thither, to wit: flocks and herds. That his grandfather, before the infirmities of age had come upon him, had raised herds of kine and hogs, which he drove fifty miles to market every year; but that was some years ago, when he himself was a child. That now they only had a few sheep, which his sister tended while he was at work on a plantation at the foot of the mountain. In reply to a question Frank put while leisurely using his gold tooth-pick, the young man informed him farther that himself and his sister were of German and Irish descent. That the old man, their grandfather, was a German by birth, but had lived nearly seventy years in America. That his name was Carl Wetzel, and his only daughter, Caterina, had been married to an Irish emigrant, of the name of Kavanagh. That they were the parents of himself and sister. Finally, that they had been dead nearly seven years. It was farther ascertained that old Carl Wetzel had been a man of considerable education; and it was easily seen that Carl Kavanagh had inherited much of his father’s Irish quickness of intelligence, and much of his grandfather’s German love of knowledge.

Frank, on his part, was equally communicative, and, in spite of the haughty reserve of Captain Clifton, informed his host that he had come up in that neighborhood for the purpose of acting as groomsman at the approaching marriage of his friend, Captain Clifton, of the —— Regiment of Cavalry, to his cousin, Miss Carolyn Gower Clifton, of Clifton Place. That their journey, so far, had been rather disastrous; that they had set out from Washington City on horseback, but had become so fatigued by the excessive heat, that they had been obliged, on arriving at Winchester, to take places for themselves in the stage for Staunton, and to hire a man to bring their horses after them—riding one and leading the other, and so alternately. That before reaching Staunton, they had been thrown from the stage—without serious injury to themselves, however, and had been obliged to walk some ten miles to a village on their route, and wait the arrival of their horses, which, fortunately, were not many hours behind them. That they had ridden all day in a thick fog, lost their way, came near going over a fearful precipice, and finally got caught in the tempest that drove them for shelter to the cabin.

During all this time, Captain Clifton had seemed lost in thought, and only once spoke to inquire of the young mountaineer whether it were possible for them to pursue their journey that night. To this the young man replied that it would be impossible, even if it were then daylight, inasmuch as the torrents were swollen so greatly. And at the thought of pursuing their journey, a pang of remorse for his forgetfulness of his horses shot through the breast of Frank, and—

“What the devil can have become of Saladin?” he exclaimed, starting up.

“Oh, he is safe,” answered Clifton. “I saw them both in the shed as I looked from the little window up stairs.’

“Who put them there?”

“I tended them,” answered the girl, quietly.

They all now arose from the table. The girl cleared the board, and carried all the things out to wash up. Carl begged his guests to excuse him, and went out to give the horses a rub down and another feed.

Captain Clifton threw himself into the arm-chair, crossed his legs, took out his tablets, and began to make memorandums.

Frank impertinently peeped over his shoulder and read—“Mem. Ask my mother if she can take a little girl as a companion.” Clifton closed the book instantly, in silent rebuke of Frank’s impudence. And Frank himself walked about fidgety and unhappy for not knowing what to do with himself, until, at a restless movement of the old man, he went and poured out a mug of water, and carefully keeping behind the eye of the patient, lifted up his head and gave him drink, and after setting down the empty mug, fanned him till he went sound asleep again.

The brother and sister soon returned. Carl sat down and begun his best efforts at entertainment. But Frank, who amused himself by seeing everything, saw Kate go up stairs into the loft and bring down and carry out his own and his friend’s regimentals.

After which she came in, and drawing a stool to the table, sat down and began to knit, as quietly, as silently, as if no strangers were in her hut.

Carl took down and laid upon the table a rough draught board, and invited his guests to play with each other.

Frank eagerly caught at the opportunity, but Captain Clifton declined, on the plea of distaste to the amusement.

“Play with me, my dear fellow, for pity sake,” said Frank to Carl, “and don’t mind my friend there! You see, he doesn’t want to play, neither does he want to talk, nor to do anything but sit and think about Miss Clifton.”

“Do play with him, and keep him quiet, if you can, my good youth,” said Captain Clifton, turning his chair slightly aside from the table, so that his face was in the shade. Opposite to him, at the other corner of the table, sat Katherine, with the light shining full upon her face and head, as she bowed it over her work. Captain Clifton did not fall into a brown study, he fell into a study of the brown girl. Let no one presume to misinterpret him. It was not likely that a man of twenty-five should fall in love with a girl of fourteen. Dotards do such things, not men. Then it was utterly preposterous to suppose that Archer Clifton, of Clifton, Captain in the —— Regiment of Cavalry, the fastidious amateur in female beauty, should be smitten with a hard-featured, sun-burned girl, in a coarse, homespun frock, that the all-accomplished scholar should be charmed with the little ignoramus; that the arrogant conservative of rank should condescend to a low-born mountaineer; or that the expectant bridegroom of the beautiful and haughty Carolyn Clifton, of Clifton, should wish to marry a girl who united all these repulsive qualities of ignorance, ruggedness, and low birth. Yet if he could have looked only two short years into the future!

But Clifton was a physiognomist, and liked to study a novel individuality. A new and very curious subject was before him now. At first he had seen in Kate nothing more than a coarse-featured, dark-skinned country girl. Now, as he sat and watched her at her quiet work, with her countenance in the repose of thoughtfulness, he saw that her features, though certainly not beautiful or classical, were even of a higher order of physiognomy, combining the rarest elements of power and goodness. The broad and massive forehead, straight nose, and square, firm jaws, were the strong and ugly features—the rugged frame work, as it were, of her countenance, and indicated great force of character. But her hair, eyes, and lips were beautiful. Her hair, of rich dark brown, with golden lights, rippled around her forehead, shading and softening its stern strength. Her eyes, large and shadowy, with drooping lashes, and her lips sweetly curved, full, and pensively closed, suggested a profound depth of tenderness. Indeed the brooding brow, the downcast eyes, and the compressed lips seemed to be habitual with her, and gave her countenance an expression of grief and care beyond her years, and of thought and intellect above her station. As Clifton sat and studied her, he thought—not of

“Full many a flower that’s born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air,”

for the girl did not resemble a flower so much as a hardy, pine sapling of her native mountains. No; that look, strength, intellect, and self-balance—in a word—that look of POWER, suggested rather—girl as she was—

“Some village Hampden with undaunted breast.

* * * * *

Some mute inglorious Milton, * * *

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.”

It was a Maria Theresa face without the wickedness.

Captain Clifton’s physiognomical studies were interrupted by the abrupt starting of Frank, who exclaimed vehemently—

“Beaten in four games! Now, that’s what I call outrageous! Don’t you know, my dear fellow, that there are three persons in the world who should never be beaten—a guest, a woman, and a monarch?”

Carl laughed and chuckled, and beating the draught-board tambourine-like above his head in triumph, carried it off and put it away.

The whole party then arose to retire. Carl took the candle and showed his guests up into the loft and left them to repose.

“Now where will that child sleep, for we have got her room?” asked Frank, with concern, as soon as they were alone.

“Oh-h!” replied Captain Clifton, indifferently, “anywhere—on a pallet—perhaps, down stairs.”

“But the old man and the young one—”

“Oh-h!” again drawled Clifton, in a bored tone, “if you expect to meet with refinement among the mountain people, you will be disappointed.”

Long after the travellers had laid down to rest, they heard the sound of footsteps moving about in the room below. They moved quietly and cautiously, as if fearful of disturbing the guests; but, as I said before, all sounds, even the lowest, could be distinctly heard through that shell of a house.

On awaking the next morning, the young men found their own clothes well cleaned, dried, and pressed, ready for them to put on.

“Ah, ha!” said the sagacious Frank, “that is what the poor girl was at work at so late last night.”

On going down stairs they found the lower room neatly arranged, and breakfast ready for them—hot coffee, corn pone, hot rolls, rashers of fried bacon, eggs, potatoes, etc. And there, in the arm-chair, in a clean homespun suit, sat the old man, looking as calm, as self-possessed, as noble and venerable as a Roman senator. He arose and bowed to the gentlemen, and offered his chair to one of them.

No wonder it bowed the young girl’s head with grief and shame—it pained and humbled even these strangers, to know that this most reverend white-haired patriarch was often transformed by drunkenness into the beast! It was a disease, Kate had often said, wringing her hands with anguish, while seeing his degradation.

It was a disease, and never till vice is treated as such, will an effectual remedy be applied.

Immediately after breakfast, the gentlemen took leave of the family, and mounted their horses to pursue their journey. Frank, in the thoughtless kindness of his heart, would have offered the poor people some remuneration for their entertainment, but Clifton, who knew the habits and feelings of the mountaineers better, arrested a purpose that might have given offence. But on parting with Carl Kavanagh, Captain Clifton expressed his thanks for the hospitality that had been extended to himself and friend—adding, that if he could then, or at any time, in any manner, be of use to his kind host, he should be happy to serve him, etc., etc. To this the young man replied—

“I thank you, sir. I know Captain Clifton by report, and feel that I can trust to his generosity. I have a heavy care—my young sister. If you could hear of a place at service for her among the honorable ladies of your family or acquaintance, I should feel very grateful indeed, sir.”

Captain Clifton kindly gave his promise to make inquiries. Frank again shook hands with Carl, bowed to Kate, nodded to the old man through the window, and then the travellers turned from the door of the mountain hut, cantered briskly up the glen, and took the road to White Cliffs.

CHAPTER II.
CLIFTON AND THE BEAUTIES.

“Against the cliffs

See’st thou not where the mansion stands? The moonbeam

Strikes on the granite column, and tall trees

Group shadowy round it.”—Anonymous.

A most portentous trial waits thee now—

Woman’s bright eyes and dazzling snowy brow.—Moore.

The torrents had been so terribly swollen and overflowed, and the roads so dreadfully washed and guttered by the tempest and flood of the preceding evening, that the travellers found the greatest difficulty in pursuing their journey, often having to turn back miles on this road to take another way, and often being obliged to search leagues up and down the course of a river, to find a practicable ford.

Therefore it was near night-fall when they crossed the last range of forest-crowned mountains, and descended into the wooded valley that lay between them and White Cliffs. A winding road through the woods brought them to the house. The full moon was rising East of the cliffs, and casting their shadow back across the house and lawn. The mansion was a lofty edifice of white stone, with terraced roof, and many irregular, projecting wings. The tall trees surrounding the buildings, the lofty cliffs rising behind them, the dark shadow falling on all; the hour, the silence, and the solitude, gave an air of refreshing coolness and deep repose to the scene. On turning an angle of the building, they saw the drawing-room windows open, and the light from them gleaming out cheerfully across that part of the lawn. At that moment a servant, waiting at the hall door, came down to take their horses.

“All well at home, Dandy?” inquired Captain Clifton, as he dismounted, and threw him the reins.

“Sarvint, sir. All very well,” replied the man, touching his hat.

Captain Clifton led the way up into the hall adjoining the drawing-room, where they were met by an old gentleman, who seized both of Clifton’s hands, and shook them slowly and cordially, as he said, dropping each word separately, with a hearty, luscious emphasis—

“Why—my—dear—boy—how glad I am—to see you!”

“And I am very happy to be with you, sir; and to find you looking so well. Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance—Lieutenant Fairfax, of my company,” said Captain Clifton, presenting his friend.

“Glad to see him! Glad to see Mr. Fairfax! Glad to welcome any friend of my nephew’s to Clifton. How-do-you-do, sir? Knew your relative, Lord Fairfax, of Greenway Courthouse. Excessively fond of hunting. Kept bachelor’s hall. Very great mistake, that—very! Hope you won’t follow his example! Fine man, however, and I honor his memory! Come in, sir! come in! Come in, Archy! My—dear—boy—I’m—so—del—ighted to see you!”

Whenever he spoke to his nephew, he seemed to dwell upon each separate syllable with a cordiality impossible to describe.

He was a large, old gentleman, clothed in a fresh, fragrant suit of pale blue linen, with his hair as white as cotton, his fresh, rosy complexion, fine teeth, and clear, kind, blue eyes, making a most refreshing picture of simplicity, cheerfulness, and cleanliness of soul and body in old age. He was of a sanguine temperament, and under great provocation, could get into a passion, too. And what old father of a family, with two grown daughters, and a young wife, all under eighteen years of age, and all beauties, has not enough combustible material to burn the house down, or set his own temper on fire?—yet such was the kindness of his heart, that even when in violent anger, stamping up and down the floor, grasping desperately at his own white temple locks with both hands, and vociferating in stentorian tones—it was all, as Frank afterwards said, shooting with blank cartridges—he never said a word, or did a thing, to wound a single soul.

“I trust the ladies are all well, sir,” said Captain Clifton, as he followed his uncle.

“Yes—yes—that is to say, Carry is well, but not well pleased. She expected you yesterday—didn’t consider the storm any excuse for your absence. Ah! you dog—you sad dog—at your age would I have kept a lady waiting? Nay, would I do it now? But come, shall I present you to the ladies now, or do you prefer first the refreshment of the bath and a change of dress? Your own and your friend’s baggage arrived this morning by the wagon, and has been conveyed to your rooms.”

“Oh, a change of dress, by all means!” suggested Frank.

“Dandy—Dandy!” exclaimed the old gentleman, raising his strong voice, till the servant appeared, “show Mr. Fairfax to General Washington’s room.”

General Washington had slept one night at Clifton, and from that time to this, the room he occupied has been “General Washington’s room.”

The servant conducted Mr. Fairfax up stairs. And then the old gentleman, turning to his nephew, took his hands again, and said—

“My dear boy, once more I must say, I’m—so—glad—to—see you! You are at home, you know. So go and find your room, and ring and give your orders, my son, for you are so. And I will go and let the ladies know that you have come, though I dare say they know it already.”

And shaking his hands, he let them go and turned slowly away.

Half an hour sufficed the young gentlemen to make themselves presentable. At the end of which time they descended the stairs, and were met in the hall by old Mr. Clifton, who ushered them into the drawing-room.

This apartment was a most delightful summer room. It was very spacious, occupying the whole first floor of one of those irregular wings of the house. The ceiling was lofty, the walls were covered with pearl white paper, and the floor of white oak was waxed and polished to an ivory smoothness. On three sides were tall windows, reaching to the floor, and opening out upon the piazza or the lawn, and draped with snowy, flowing curtains. On the fourth side was the open fire-place, whitened inside, and having on its marble hearth an alabaster vase of lilies, whose fragrance filled the air. The walls were adorned with tall mirrors, and with choice paintings, all of a cool, refrigerating character, such as: An Alpine Scene, A Green Forest Glade, with Deer Reposing, A Mountain Lake, A Shaded Pond, with Cows, A Farm Yard in a Snow Storm, etc. A piano stood at the farthest end of the room. A harp reclined near it. A few marble-topped stands and tables, scattered over with rare prints, books, virtu, bijouterie, etc., stood at convenient distances. A lady’s elegant work-table, with its costly trifles, was a pleasing feature in the room. Sofas, ottomans, divans, and lounging chairs, “fitted to a wish for study or repose,” were everywhere at hand.

Through the open windows came the evening wind, laden with the fragrance of flowers, the murmur of falling waters, the whisper of leaves, and the cheery chirp of insects—those night songsters who begin when the birds go to sleep—nature’s vesper choir. While from the open windows could be darkly seen the tall shadowy trees, the towering white cliffs, and, in the distance, a bend of that great river which took its rise here, and which there sleeping among the dark green hills, with the moon shining full upon it, seemed a resplendent mountain lake, flashing back the moonbeams from its bosom in rays of dazzling light. The whole effect of the room and the scene was delightfully cooling and refreshing.

When Mr. Clifton conducted his guests into this saloon, it was occupied by three young ladies, who, immediately on their entrance, arose to receive them; and whom, in presenting his visitors, Mr. Clifton severally named as, my wife, Mrs. Clifton,—my daughter, Miss Clifton, and my second daughter, Zuleime. Captain Clifton, in turn, saluted his aunt and cousins. Miss Clifton, his betrothed, received him with cold hauteur.

So, these were the beauties—and beautiful, passing beautiful, they were indeed, though differing from each other in beauty, as “one star differs from another in glory.” But let me describe them.

Carolyn Clifton is tall and elegantly proportioned, and moves with high-bred dignity. Her features are Grecian—her complexion is dazzlingly fair, save when the pure rich blood mantles in her cheek, and crimsons the short and scornful lip. Her eyes are blue, and half veiled by their fair lashes, as in disdain of aught that might seek their glance. Her fair hair is carried up from her forehead, and falls in bright tendril-like curls around the back of her neck, lending an intellectual and queenly grace to the proud head. The costume of that day closely resembled the prevailing mode of our own. Miss Clifton wore a dress of pale blue silk, made low in the neck, with a long-waisted stomacher, tight sleeves reaching to the elbows, and ample flowing skirt. The neck was trimmed with a fall of deep lace, then called a “tucker,” and answering to the present berthè. The tight half-sleeves were trimmed at the elbows by deep lace ruffles, shading the arm. A necklace of large strung pearls around her throat, a bracelet of the same on her arm, and a pearl-headed pin run through the Grecian knot of ringlets at the back of her head, completed her toilet. She carried in her hand and toyed carelessly with a beautiful fan of marabout feathers. She was the daughter of the first Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton, a fair, proud Maryland lady, one of the haughty Gowers, who lived long enough to augment by precept and example, the double portion of family arrogance Carolyn Clifton had inherited from both sides of her house. Miss Clifton had “received her education” at a first-class “Ladies’ Institute” at Richmond.

Zuleime, the younger sister, was about fourteen years of age, but well grown and full-formed for her years. She was the daughter of the second Mrs. Clifton, a beautiful West Indian Creole, who died in giving her life. She had the snowy skin and damask cheek of her father’s fair race, and the glittering black hair and sparkling black eyes of her Creole mother. Her dress was of plain white muslin, with short sleeves and low neck, and coral necklace, which well set off the exceeding brilliancy of her complexion. Zuleime was home for the mid-summer holidays.

Mrs. Clifton, of Clifton, Georgia!

“Yes, she is indeed the most beautiful woman in the whole world,” exclaimed Fairfax, to himself, as he turned from the fair and dignified Carolyn—the brilliant and sparkling Zuleime, to the dark and graceful Georgia. She is of medium height. Her complexion is a rich, dark, uniform olive, her very cheeks being of the same hue, but so transparently clear, that that which would mar the perfection of another face, adds deeper beauty to hers. Yes! the delicate bloom of the fair Carolyn, and the bright damask blush of the brilliant Zuleime, seem common-place beside the perfect beauty of the pure, clear olive cheek of the dark Georgia. Her hair is intensely black, with depths under depths of darkness, lurking in the labyrinths of irregular curls that cluster around, and throw so deep a shadow over her witching face. Her eyebrows are black and arched. Her eyelashes are long, black, and drooping. Her eyes are—pause—I have been trying to think of something to which her wondrous eyes may be compared, for darkness, profundity and power. Midnight? No, her eyes are darker, stiller, and more solemn yet. Thunder clouds? No, for her eyes are more stormy and impending still—and their electric stroke is silent as it is fatal. In short, her eyes resemble nothing but themselves. Her dress is of black gauze, over black silk, made high to veil her neck, and finished with a narrow black lace, within which gleams around her throat a necklace of jet and gold. She wears no other jewelry. A large black lace mantilla is carelessly thrown over all. When she moves her every movement is undulating grace—her motion might be set to music. And when she sits still she is so still, and dark, and beautiful—and something else, besides, that the gazer experiences something like the fascination and terror one feels in looking down the depths of a dark chasm.